:Three

We Shadow Lurkers have a tendency to stick to – well, the shadows.
There have been several controversial discussions on the ethics
Of the “’Proper’ Way of Hunt”, and are still in circulation. But really,
I don’t pay attention to those sorts of things. Oh,
No, don’t get me wrong. I have my – things.
Like, I don’t really like hunting families;
That’s just not my thing. There are some bigots that don’t really seem to care
About the dangers of leaving offspring without their parents,
But normally, I don’t associate myself with them.

What I’m about to tell you, sort of contradicts with what I just said.
I know I said I “normally don’t”, but there’s a reason for that.

It had been just like any other day.
I was prepping my equipment at my hunting shed,
(Which I had built far away from the bustling city),
When suddenly I heard three knocks on my door.
It’s rare that anyone visits me; especially out here.
Cautiously, I slide the cover from the peephole to check who it could be –
Some weirdo wearing a cape
(I mean common, everyone knows capes
Are the worst thing to wear when you’re hunting).
I give her a second to speak.
She doesn’t.

“Uhhh, do you need something.. or something?”

She responds in some weird mix of garbling language I’ve never heard before.
I can’t really understand what she’s saying, but she seemed harmless,
And she seemed hungry and cold, so I let her in.

“You came at a great time, I was just about to go out to get some food.” – lies

She garbles something at me again, but I thought I heard her
Say she wanted to come, so I handed her a knife.

That’s how it all started. We’d hunt together, pretty much, every day,
Didn’t really speak much, but I enjoyed her company.

We’re out in the forest tracking some prey on our own,
When I hear an abrupt skin prickling screech.
I rush over to access the situation and see her convulsing;
Her body morphing, lumps shooting under the pall of her cape,
Then it stops.
I lift up her cape –
She’s killed a mother
And she’s stopped moving.

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In Shame

Desperation caused me to seek out
The answers I had been looking for
Visiting and revisiting the same location.
A location that appeared from the formation
Of letters pulled from the pages of poetry.
Day in and day out I’d pull these letters from the edges
Convinced they had been an encryption.
By chance, or perhaps a specter’s sedition,
The place remained the same, the words,
They unscrambled repeatedly in front of me.

I’d arrive at this place, unscrambling letters
On pieces of paper, in notebooks and folders.
I’d wait for directions, hoping it would lead me
To pearlescent gates; where we’d stand, substantiated.
In these letters, promises were made, a scavenger
Hunt had been initiated. I’d make mistakes, or I’d
Reluctantly pull away from the directed course of action
For they had been too much. They were things I couldn’t
Bring myself to carry out, due to emotions, fear or shame.
But I’d stay, I’d knock, on every doorway,
On each floor that had been indicated,
Entering the ones that remained open, uncertain
Of the room number that had been given in simple
Mathematical equations, but no one ever answered.

For months I chased a ghost, while keeping in mind
The lucidity of its being, because witnessing the paranormal
Would have been worth it. But it turns out,
Keeping it mind had not been enough
To keep me from getting locked in bear traps
That were hidden along the way. Hope
Turned reason into belief. The lengths I traveled
In prayer that reached no one, or fell on deaf ears,
Leave me here, in shame,
Tired and weary,
As I dispairingly recall
The foolishness in the pursuit of blind fascination,
While it viciously reminds me of my unrelenting stupidity.

Life seems to be trying to
Obscurely teach me a
Lesson: Don’t chase ghosts.